


Stole

by saltwatereulogies



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Blood, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Don't Have to Know Canon, F/F, Historical Fantasy, Historical Horror, Historical References, Lesbian Vampires, Origin Story, POV First Person, Power Imbalance, Vampires, due to the class system, lady dimitrescu origin story, lady dimitrescu pov, written pre-Resident Evil Village release
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 03:20:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29694237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltwatereulogies/pseuds/saltwatereulogies
Summary: "Her name sounded as her voice; a whisper in the wind, the skating of autumn crisped leaves, a bell chime in the distance. She was the shinning pelt of a flighty fallow doe, the tremulous color between grey and blue; baby birds that have fallen from the nest pale, pink, frail, but above all- dying."The origins of Alcina Dimitrescu.
Relationships: Lady Dimitrescu (Resident Evil)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 34





	1. Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> This tale is told from the view point of the woman later to be known as the vampire Alcina Dimitrescu.
> 
> I swear it. 
> 
> In the canon of this origin story the name was not always hers.
> 
> Comments give me life, like blood.
> 
> (There is no established canon on where she is from or who she was before the demo, so please treat this as mostly original fiction content aside from from is depicted in the trailers as well as the Maiden demo. I do not have access to insider game knowledge nor would I seek out leaks.)

Alcina.

Her name sounded as her voice; a whisper in the wind, the skating of autumn crisped leaves, a bell chime in the distance. She was the shinning pelt of a flighty fallow doe, the tremulous color between grey and blue; baby birds that have fallen from the nest pale, pink, frail, but above all- dying.

I loved her and hated her in equal parts. In my darkest moments I dreamed of grasping her gentle neck like that of a rabbit and snapping it to end the dry coughs that sometimes wracked her fragile frame. A mercy killing at its best, a covetous desire at worst. It was simple from a distance, to both revere and revile her. She was a fairytale princess in a tower and I some orphan from a novel by the likes of Dickens or Hugo. Her tragedy was artful and mine vulgar simply by virtue of present status. 

During the first year it was a bitterness easy enough to stave off by telling myself that this was a temporary purgatory to be suffered through until the Russian nobility rose back into their rightful place. Undoubtedly the Lord and Lady had this same thought, why have me smuggled to them if not in some hope of further ingratiating themselves to the mighty Russian Empire. The Bolsheviks would be put down like mad dogs and Russia would remember its allies- which the Dimitrescu family had been to an extent during the Great War, a fact that they reminded me of repeatedly until it quickly became obvious that my opinion of them was unimportant. 

I was a captive of questionable value, a depreciating asset.

Even so, I had been brought along to their new stately home in Transylvania- apparently it was, in a way, the favor of their king and the Entete as they gathered in Versailles that had bettered their circumstances. It was a more complicated affair than that, of course. There had been wars and conflicts of various natures since I was old enough to be aware of them. There is no point in explaining them all because as a young woman one is given little explanation aside from what might impact you directly. 

All that mattered was the following:

1\. My name held no true status now and its weight could only crush me.  
2\. It was better to forget that name, my family, my life before Romania.  
3\. As the ward of the Dimitrescu family and was owed nothing but owed them everything.  
4\. Down with the Austro-Hungarian Empire, long live King Ferdinand I!

The automobile ride into the Carpathians had been unpleasant. Such trips always were, but especially this one. The sound of the engine and the wheels over the poorly kept road had been constant, only to be drown out by the cheering of the villagers as we passed through. Thin, weary hands reached out towards us and stopped short of the road’s edge. A woman in a dirty kerchief dropped to her knees and reached up to the sky in praise as though God had sent us to them. As if we had vanquished an ancient evil and they had been liberated from a lifetime of terror.  
Ah, and I confess that for a moment I was swept up in the sentiment of it. Suddenly lifted as a feather on a stray breeze only to come back down.

In Russia, the peasantry had adored my family- until they did not.

The shudder that ran through my shoulders did not match the heat of the noonday sun.

As the cheers and rapture of the villagers faded behind our caravan it was replaced once again by the growls of the automobile engines and the rumble of tires upon the poorly kept road. The thin, demonic squall of Countess Dimictrescu’s baby son sounded from further ahead in the procession. Despite being unable to see her from my place in the line of black open top vehicles I could picture the way the noblewoman’s lips must be cutting downward into the most disdainful scowl. The Italian was always sour faced to some degree as though perpetually smelling something foul. If it were not for how vital her son’s health was to her retaining her husband’s favor, I imagine she would have tossed him from the nursery window during his first sickly, screaming weeks. 

Countess Dimitrescu’s tolerance may have had a greater capacity for her own children than it ever had for me. I was “ţânţar” to her and her maids; a biting, parasitic insect there to drain the Dimitrescu family of their resources. There was no patience for a mosquito except in waiting for the chance to squash it should it land within reach.

A lurching pitch of the vehicle sent my hands bracing upon the warm leather of the driver’s row in front of me. My elbows locked and lips pressed together as my eyes remained upon the toes of my brown leather shoes. The nausea and unease were endured with as much dignity as I could muster until we came to a halt at the top of the treacherous mountain. 

It was all I could do not to leap from the automobile as soon as the door was opened for me. I did not spare the man who opened it for me a look, but I muttered my thanks. It did not matter much as it was the maids I interacted with most and their loyalties were first and foremost to the Lady of the castle, and then the precious “little miss”. Even so, I did not want to earn enemies by my own merit. It was lonely enough as it was and the only person who truly associated with me much at all was the little Heisenberg boy- whom I suspect did so only to have someone to practice Russian with aside from his irascible tutor. He was a child besides, if anything he felt more like the little brother I never had than a peer. The fact that he chose to call me “elder sister” helped further this sentiment.

In a curious moment of happenstance, the bustling throng of black clad servants parted sending my heart into my throat. There, at a great distance, ascending the stairs with careful mincing steps was a figure swathed in a blue gown with a shawl the consistency of fairy floss wrapped around her narrow shoulders. Brief transitory moments revealed the warm olive skin of her neck before being concealed again by the curtain of her hair with a move of the head and an adjustment of her wide brimmed hat. She was there in the fragile flesh, from beyond the window casing.

I wondered where she would be moved next, which of the tall claw-like spires she would inevitably be entombed within. If her feet would touch the same earth as mine again.

My feet pattered a light staccato against the stone drive as I wove and darted through butlers, maids and drivers. Like a child pursuing a witch in the wood I was not sure what to do if I caught her; kill her, flee in fear, stand frozen and wait to be consumed? The unknowability of the girl in the window had devoured my thoughts from the moment I had first glimpsed her through shivering lace curtains.  
Before I could process the purposeful press of a boot at my ankle I am flying forward, hitting the path hard and sliding on my belly like a viper. Stray rocks shred at my palms when I reflexively put them out to stop myself. One of the house guards, Grigore, wasted no time in helping me to my feet as he repeatedly asks one of the few phrases I taught him in Russian, “are you well” and I try not to wince as he releases my palm. 

“I am fine,” I assure him in Romanian and if we had not an audience I would have smiled up at his battle-marred face. Showing Grigore any obvious approval would not do him any favors with the Countess, and so by extension the Count. I could not have one of the few decent people here reprimanded because I had behaved foolishly.

My hands hurriedly brushed at my dress while I continued onward, bounding up the stone stairs and towards the looming, double-doored entrance of the castle. A sharp elbow jabbed into my side as I squirmed between two footmen. Whoever had injured my already smarting ribs might have apologized, I could not be certain whilst in such single-minded pursuit.

Alas. As I scanned the dark palate of the grand foyer, I realized that I was too late.

Like a dream, like a ghost, she had vanished.


	2. Twee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A reminder that this tale is told from the view point of the woman later to be known as the vampire Alcina Dimitrescu.
> 
> In the canon of this origin story the name was not always hers.
> 
> Comments give me life, like blood.
> 
> (There is no established canon on where she is from or who she was before the demo, so please treat this as mostly original fiction content aside from from is depicted in the trailers as well as the Maiden demo. I do not have access to insider game knowledge nor would I seek out leaks.)

**Chapter 2**

Twee

That night I dreamed I was horseback riding with Papa. The early autumn had started to nip at the skin my coat and white fur stole did not cover. Shades of gold embroidered the mountains beyond, glowing as the sun dipped below the seam between them and the sky.

“Slow down, sobol’.” He chuckled, clear and rich.

If I had been aware that I was dreaming I might have wept in hearing him use that endearment, to have heard him speak at all. In this moment I had never left home. I was swift, darting, dark-haired and rare. Not yet hunted - wanted as an exotic adornment for some Rumyny at the expense of my past life.

My horse Fyodor slowed in his pace so that I was riding side by side with my father. His smile turned the curled ends of his dark moustache upward as he turned his head to look my way. With an impish gleam in his eyes, he brought his dark stallion into a swift canter.  
  


“Not fair, Papa!”

“Fair or not, you must catch up!”

I huffed lightly at his laughter. It was my fault for not expecting it. Playing games with my father consisted of the game itself and predicting how he might cheat, as well as how I might also do so without notice. It was an understood addendum to any rules, much to Mama’s quiet dismay. ‘Life does not play fair’, he would remind me of such a grave fact with a sort of humor, as though he had posed a funny joke. Not yet knowing the cruelty of men it sat with me as laughable at best, a minor irritant confined to the game at worst. More than once, I stuck my tongue out at him for it- also to Mama’s disapproval.

Papa never minded; I had inherited his wild spirit.

“You are falling behind, sobol’.”

I goaded Fyodor into a faster gait, but beyond all logic the stirrup and horn on my leather sidesaddle vanished as if it had never been. There is hardly time to cry out before I land hard upon my arm and shoulder in the dirt below. The pain is excruciating, rending, burning? No. It is nothing. What I felt was nothing to what I heard. The popping of wood on the fire, the snap of a lightning bolt, then lastly it was identified as a rifle shot.

Without a shout or a cry, Papa falls from his horse and from this distance I am not certain that he has a head anymore. I take a breath to scream and a small, calloused hand clasps over my mouth. Without seeing or hearing her I know it is my handmaid Taska. It could be no one else. The barrel of a rifle presses to my temple, still warm with the passage of the bullet that struck my papa.

The pop of a fireplace, a lightning bolt, the journey of a lead cone through my skull.

When I wake my bedsheets are tangled about my legs and my nightgown twisted up about my hips. Damp, chill skin served as evidence of having sweat frightfully in my sleep. Every night I dream of my family it ends this way. If only I could have a vision of them not fermented in blood.

As I kicked the sheets from my legs and pulled the gown hem back to my calves, I took note of the light streaming in between the heavy curtains drawn shut over my bedroom window. It would not be long before the lady’s maid assigned to me arrived. Who it was rotated at seemingly arbitrary intervals. If I wanted to get to know them or form any nature of attachment it would have been difficult. The Countess needn’t worry. I had little interest in the maids beyond keeping a wary eye upon them when we occupied the same space.

I flinched at the clatter of something dropped upon the stone path in the east garden. The clap of a sharp palm across the cheek of whoever had been responsible followed just before I had risen from bed and pushed open the heavy fabric of the drapes.

Below my window there are servants scurrying like rats across the garden courtyard, carrying ostentatious ornamentation to lay upon tables, attach to large golden sun umbrellas and wherever else they felt to be tasteful. From this first look alone we had differing thoughts on what that meant, but perhaps it would have been suitable for Count and Countess Dimitrescu.

The source of the noise is crouched on the ground picking up what appeared to be pastries that had fallen and placing them back upon the wooden tray she presumably dropped earlier. From where the girl is hunched, she turns her head one way and then the other, causing the sun to stroke her auburn kissed hair as she looks about. Her hand grasps at one of the golden baked treats and I swear she is about to put it in her mouth. She was going to eat something from the ground like a dog. A woman in a dark nun’s habit emerges from the outskirts of the garden with swift yet mincing steps towards the girl. The maid, who I shall henceforth refer to as ‘Dog’, sets the treat upon the tray beside her as the nun places a hand gently upon the top of her head. Dog’s work pace quickens, and I cannot help but scoff as her head is _pet_ briefly before the nun walks away.

My interest in the birthday preparations for the countess’s son dwindles as I hear the squeaking of hinges behind me.

Upon turning, I recall a word my English tutor had taught me that was newly minted in England- “twee”. If anything could be described as that it was this girl. Adorable, but to an extent that made my palm itch oddly. She looked to be a caricature of young female beauty; exaggerated and overwrought. Her large eyes had a cat-like clarity and her lips were full but pinched to a degree that made her facial proportions like the subject of a painting I had once seen in a life that felt so far away from now.

“Good morning, Miss.” Goodness. The overly feminine affect to her voice is irritating in a most bizarre way. It is objectively pretty yet also brings me to wonder if she’d survive the fall from my window. When I do not reply, Twee averts her eyes from mine and continues, “My name is Lenke and I have been asked to prepare you for the party.” …At least, that is what I infer she said. The girl speaks with a thick accent of some sort. It might be Hungarian given the history of the region. I do not recall seeing her before so she could be newly hired from the village.

The thought brings me both comfort and unease. 

“Very well.” I assent after several moments of silent regard.

She moves about with relative quiet save for the rasping whisper of her skirt against whatever underdress she was wearing. The fabrics were stiff, which was odd in comparison to the other lady’s maids that the countess has sent to me before. Certainly, their clothing had not been lavish, but it had not been this… modest of means. Was she from the scullery?

My gaze goes from Twee and whatever task she is performing, to the wood framed impressionist painting on the wall. It was a loathsome thing; imprecise, pastoral. How I hated that art movement. The audacity of a work so vague to be considered brilliant. If I did not know better, I would say that the piece’s presence in my room had been purposeful. It could not have been. I had not told anyone about my passionate hatred for impressionism- in part because I had not the reason or words to.

-To top it all off it was of a peasant washing laundry beside a quaint little cottage.

_Dreadful._

The dampened nightgown slips from my shoulders. My focus moves to the maid’s and my reflection in the gold vanity mirror in front of me. There is a humming discomfort under my skin as this one dresses me. It is only alleviated somewhat by going from watching her carefully to looking anywhere but the mirror. Perhaps it was suspicion. The girl looked nothing like Taska back home, but who was to say that she too would not hand me over to armed men if given the opportunity. Her gaze catches mine and I look away.

It takes far too long for the process to be over with. Fortunately, the maid says little aside from a complimentary remark about my hair being the ‘best shade of black’. I said nothing in response, though I pondered what other variations of black hair she could have seen. In my experience one either had black hair or they did not. There was not much room for variety.

Her figure is blade thin; I note this uneasily as she leaves my room. If I were to remove her dress and the underclothes beneath it, her skin would outline the architecture of her ribs too closely. Starving or nearly so. No wonder the villagers were delighted by our arrival.

They would be swift to turn on us if the Dimitrescu family did not change their fortunes dramatically. The same went for Twee if she was not properly fed soon.

A boisterous voice could be heard from the garden below. By timbre alone I could determine it was Lord Heisenberg, which meant that my “brother” had likely arrived as well along with Lady Heisenberg and the rest of their rambunctious brood. The lot of them completely shattered my preconceived notions of what German born nobility would be like, though I suppose Lord Heisenberg had spent little time in Germany and was born of a half American mother. That must be where their amiable though almost loutish natures came from.

What amount of time passed as I stared at the intricate, low relief sculpture that outlined the door to the hall beyond, I could not say. My eyes followed the line the thick vines cut around the door up to the focal point at the apex of the dark arch wherein a face was carved with a most somber turn to its lips. Its smooth sightless eyes stared ahead, or perhaps downward at me. It might have known that I was purposefully dallying. With a deep stabilizing breath, I open the door into the opulent hallway beyond.

The little I have seen of the castle is grand, certainly, but it was nothing like Russia nor would it ever be. Back home the interiors spoke of warmth and astronomical light; noon blues, summer golds, deep orange, white as soft as June clouds. This world spoke of darkness, of horror, of unknowable monstrosity pulling one to Hell.

This thought was only cemented further as I took the time to examine my surroundings with greater interest than when I had first arrived too weary from the journey and too sore from my fall to care. Despite previously having found her fierce insistence to it obnoxious, I was now thankful that the Countess was keen on every curtain in her home being kept open during daylight hours. Heaven help me if I ever had reason to wander after nightfall.

Most of the sculptures carved into the walls were born from the imaginings of a dark, twisted soul. Hands attempting to claw desperately from the underworld, bodies impaled upon long quill-like spikes, faces with mouths agape in terror. The framed portrait of a bearded man with Satan’s sharp, cruel eyes that seem to follow me as I pass it though simplistic was one of the most unsettling I had seen thus far. This place had undoubtedly been full of little but blood and death. Who had lurked these halls before we did and where were they now? This territory belonged to the Austro-Hungarian Empire not long ago, this much I knew. Judging by how much art was left behind the previous owners had little time to leave…

Who was it that lived on my family’s estate now? Were they taking good care of my dog or had they-

No, it was better not to think of it.

My surroundings felt even more macabre than before and it anguished me to think that I might someday die in such a place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my lovely readers. If you want to follow me on Tumblr my username is saltwatereulogies there as well.
> 
> I remember reading a post online once about a girl who had a crush on a new girl at her school and was not sure how to handle it so she gave her a note that read "get out of my school". The Russian (the POV character who becomes the tall vamp later) gives me these vibes.
> 
> We meet the Heisenbergs in the next chapter and ....someone else....
> 
> Comments give me life, like blood.
> 
> (There is no established canon on where she is from or who she was before the demo, so please treat this as mostly original fiction content aside from what is depicted in the trailers as well as the Maiden demo. I do not have access to insider game knowledge nor would I seek out leaks.)


End file.
